


Dark Days

by bronweathanharthad



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, Other, Post-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:05:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3233951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronweathanharthad/pseuds/bronweathanharthad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>flashback (noun) - recurrent and abnormally vivid recollection of a traumatic experience, as a battle, sometimes accompanied by hallucinations</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Days

Frodo woke up shivering. It must have been another nightmare, for he felt rather tense and confused to find himself in bed.

    The effects of the dream dissipated, but he continued to shiver from the bone-deep unnatural cold. This winter had been nearly unbearable, with cold days often punctuated by rain. If it was snow, then maybe it wouldn’t be quite so bad, but rain was another story.

    It wasn’t always like this. He used to fall asleep to the sound of rain, and sometimes he didn't terribly mind getting soaked to the bone. But now rainy days always made him cold, even if he stayed indoors all day, and the sound was more likely to keep him awake than anything else.

    He had to keep himself together, though he doubted that he could. Sam was coming over for tea this afternoon, and Frodo simply could not bear it if he broke in front of Sam.

 

He dressed as quickly as he was able - not nearly enough layers to keep himself warm because he didn't want Sam to know about the invasive chill, but enough to keep the worst of it at bay.

    He splashed some cold water on his face and looked at his reflection. After making his hair a little more presentable, he contemplated a few things. Had he always been this pale? How long had those bags been under his eyes, and why did his eyes always display his turmoil?

    In his years at Brandy Hall he hated to look at himself, for he saw his parents, especially his mother, in his reflection. That soon passed, but now he could not bear to look into his own eyes, let alone the eyes of everyone else.

    It was no wonder why Sam always worried. Those moments of contemplation were more than enough for Frodo to worry about himself.

 

The morning crawled by. Frodo wrote a few paragraphs for his book, and he brewed some medicinal tea hoping that some of his discomfort would subside, though the tea did little if anything.

    He tried to eat but could only stomach a few bites. He had lost much of his appetite during the Quest, and on days like this it disappeared completely. He would try to eat more when Sam came by.

    The rain grew heavier. Even at noon the sky was dark. There were days like this on the way to Rivendell. The water turned to daggers when he was wounded. Every drop felt like a stabbing, and the wound pained him so constantly and so terribly that he wanted to scream, but he was too weak and too ill to scream.

    Even in the shelter of the Hill, the cold from the outside seeped into his bones. His muscles ached with every step he took, and he could barely use his left arm. Frodo began to hope that Sam would not come, but he knew that inclement weather was unlikely to keep Sam away.

    Not wishing to go outside, Frodo peered into the garden. There was little to see at this time of the year, as most of the plants bloomed in spring and summer, but he’d always appreciated the size of the garden, even when there was little life.

    The rhododendron bush looked healthy, though Frodo wished that some of the flowers remained. That had been one of his mother’s favorite flowers, and sometimes he talked to the bush as if he were talking to her. Had the flowers been in bloom, he might have braved the rain and talked to it, but he knew that going outside would only make him worse.

    The garden looked especially gloomy. Frodo remembered the mists that shrouded his vision when he was wounded, and he began to see those same mists again. It could have just been the weather, but he did not know.

    He shifted his gaze to the road. In the distance, scarcely visible, he saw a hooded, seemingly faceless figure walking quickly up the hill.

    He felt a jolt in his brain, and he sensed the darkness of Weathertop.

    He felt a chilling breeze, and he felt the soul-piercing eyes of the Riders, especially those of their leader. He did not see their figures, but he knew they were there. He felt himself sink to the floor, but he lost the ability to do anything. He could not move. He could not make it stop. He could not scream.

    He saw the eyes first, then the rest of the body. And then he saw the knife. He could not shield himself, and he could not hide. The eyes took away his voice. He was completely vulnerable, with no hope of making this nightmare end.

    The wraith’s movements became agonizingly slow as he drew back the knife. And then the knife pierced him, starting with his skin and quickly working its way to his heart and his soul. Only then could he scream.

 

Several moments of empty haze passed. He heard a voice that he could not yet recognize, nor could he hear the words. And something touched his hand, and soon he heard the voice's words, but he still could not recognize who was talking.

    “It’s all right. I’m here. You’re safe.”

    Frodo turned his head towards the voice. He saw a blurred shape that must have been the person's face. Frodo felt their gaze, and it burned his soul. The comforting voice disappeared, and he felt as vulnerable, as utterly helpless as he felt in Mordor. He felt a massive weight on his chest, and breathing became nearly impossible.

    The voice – Sam’s voice, it had to be Sam’s voice – spoke again. Frodo was again too distressed to hear the specific words, but the sound comforted him. He closed his eyes and forced himself to focus on breathing. When he opened his eyes, he was back in the present.

    Sam still held Frodo's hand. “Mr. Frodo, are you all right?” he asked. He knew the answer before the question left his lips, yet he asked it all the same.

    “No,” Frodo whispered weakly. “I'm ... I'm sorry that you saw this.”

    “You don’t have to apologize. I know you can’t help it.” Sam carefully lifted Frodo off the floor. “Now you just have a seat by the fire, and I’ll make you some tea.”

 

Frodo stared blankly into the fire while Sam brewed the tea.

    He wanted to feel something, anything at all, to be certain he still lived. Instead he felt numb and empty.

    “Miserable weather we’re having,” Sam said. “You’ll catch cold if you’re out in it too long.”

    Frodo nodded.

    Sam left the room briefly and came back with some mugs. He poured the tea and handed one of the mugs to Frodo. “Here you are, sir, nice and hot. That should lift your spirits some.”

    Frodo took a sip. It smelled and tasted faintly of berries.

    Suddenly he felt tears on his cheeks. He hadn’t noticed that they were in his eyes, and he had no idea why they fell. Before he knew it, he was sobbing.

    Sam immediately knelt by the chair. “Mr. Frodo, what’s wrong? Was it something I said?”

    Words spilled from Frodo’s mouth without any second thought. “I am so tired. I am weak all the time. I can’t look into anyone’s eyes, and I can’t bear for anyone to look at me. I’m afraid of my own mind. I just want one day of peace, just one day. Just one…” He couldn’t say anything more.

    Sam hugged Frodo as tightly as he dared. He didn’t know what to say. Maybe there was nothing to say. What words could possibly bring Frodo any comfort?

    Frodo soon ran out of tears, and Sam released his embrace. “I’m sorry,” Frodo said as he wiped his eyes. “Today has been much worse than usual. I’m sorry for worrying you.”

    “It’s all right, sir. You haven’t done no harm.” Sam was actually quite glad that Frodo spoke so openly. Such speech was rare, and he felt a little better knowing to some extent what was plaguing his master. “I can stay tonight if you need me.”

    Frodo had an expression that vaguely resembled a smile. “Thank you, but you have already done so much. I’ll be all right.”

    Sam nodded. “All right. Let’s make some fresh tea then. I’m sure it’s gone cold by now.”

**Author's Note:**

> -My headcanon is that Frodo develops PTSD, ommetaphobia (fear of eyes), and scopophobia (fear of eye contact) from the Quest.  
> -I have never suffered a flashback and was not entirely certain how to accurately write one. I apologize if I messed up.  
> -This is based on movie canon, when Frodo lives in Bag End by himself.


End file.
